


Hidden Things

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Clothed Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Hellhound!Parrish, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, No Lube, Roughness, Self Confidence Issues, poor sheriff is not very easy on himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6234844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There had been a time in his life when Sheriff Stilinski knew what he wanted, and where his life was heading.</p><p>Once, he had been certain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hidden Things

Sheriff John Stilinski knew there were things he should not do. Things he should not think.

He was a man nearing fifty, stuck in a town full of impossibilities, with a son entrenched in werewolf politics and murders. Once, he’d thought he known the plot his life would take- his son would go to college, he would retire, and spend his last years lying back in deck chairs with his wife.

But his wife had lost her mind, and then he’d lost her for good- though, she’d been lost far before they’d put her in the ground. Stiles’ best friend had been bitten and now had eyes the colour of blood, and teeth that cut like knives. The world was a dangerous, dark place, full of violence, and John was ashamed and terrified to know that his son knew that violence better than he did. When he went to bed, now, he stared at the ceiling, wondering if tonight was the night. Would his son be killed tonight? And, by what? A kanima? A werewolf? A banshee of some description? He was losing his mind, and there was no refuge.

Well. There was one refuge.

But it was a forbidden line of thought, one that he tried to bury every time it sprung into his head- which it did, no matter how much he tried to crush it.

A year or so ago, a young man had taken a seat before his desk, looking for all the world like an eighteen year old fresh out of senior year. He had green eyes, a perfect smile, white teeth, and a physique that you had to see to believe. Learning that he was ex-army, an explosives expert, only made him more interesting, more exciting. At the time, John convinced himself it was just potential he saw in Jordan Parrish. So, he became Deputy Parrish, and the responsible Sheriff pretended his eyes hadn’t travelled up and down that young body when the man had left his office. That would be irresponsible. That would be a nightmare. That would be an insult to his dead wife’s memory.

It got worse- because, as much as he tried, he couldn’t hide how he felt. Not from himself. The best he could do was desperately set up dates with women- even Lydia’s mother. A beautiful woman. A successful, confident, fashionable woman. He didn’t want her, but he pretended he did- ‘it’s just one date, dad. With a woman. Or a man?’ Stiles had asked, jokingly, grinning, and John had frozen, deep down in his core, shaking with terror. His son knew. He was sure of it. His son knew, and he was a horrible father, a horrible husband to a dead wife.

‘It’s a woman, Stiles.’ He’d said it with a scoff in his voice.

But then things had gotten worse.

Parrish had become something else. Something supernatural. He’d been burned alive, screaming into the dead night, and John had stared with transfixed horror as a naked Parrish straddled Haigh and beat him nearly to death. His eyes shone yellow, orange, fiery like the coals of hell, and John had dreamed about that for weeks.

He’d kept Parrish on desk duty. He told himself it was out of caution of Parrish’s unknown supernatural nature. Playing it safe, he reasoned. Doing his duty.

The worst came when he ran into the house, and found him there. Bleeding, head tipped back, eyes half-closed, mouth open.

“Parrish!”

His hands were on him, useless, not knowing what to do. Parrish didn’t move. A breath escaped his lips, his perfect lips, and it sounded so final that John started to get scared- he’d heard final breaths before, on the ground beside victims, when the ambulance wasn’t quick enough to get to suspects that had been shot, when he’d been sitting next to his dying wife and she’d been unable to finish her last sentence.

“Parrish!”

He shook him, and Parrish’s eyes opened- not yellow, not orange, not burning with the power that John feared and hated so very much. His eyes were watered-down green, pale in the dark room, weak with fatigue. He was looking at a young man; the young man who’d had an abusive father, an absentee mother, who’d run to the army to find family, and had run to Beacon Hills because he’d had no choice.

And John knew, in that moment, he wanted to save him.

He wanted him.

“You’ll be alight.” He held his neck, fingers curled around pale skin, palms becoming bloody. “I’m going to need to move you. Parrish?”

Eyelids fluttered. Lips trembled. Breaths stuttered. “Sher… iff…?”

“Parrish?” Shaking him again, panic making John sick, making his throat thick. “ _Jordan_.”

A smile, then, tugging weakly at lips. Lips that were begging to be kissed, even as they shone with specs of blood. “Wondered when you’d use my-” he coughed, face contorting in pain, “- real name-”

“Stop talking.” It was more of a suggestion than anything else, and he said it softly, gently as he could, shocked by his own tenderness.

Parrish looked at him then, and John was sure he knew.

Nearly half an hour later, they were in the hospital with Melissa, and John was pointing his gun at a stranger. Parrish was looking at him with yellow eyes, breathing deeply, the blood on his bare chest drying to a thick crust. But there was no evil in those eyes, in that stranger’s stare. They were both remembering the taste of blood, the barely-there touch of lips, young man and older man, a secret shared in a dilapidated house.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Melissa said, misunderstanding, pushing his arm down. John lowered his gun, but not because she told him to. He lowered his gun because Parrish’s eyes turned green, and that young man was in front of him again. And his chest was tight.

Jordan.

He was Jordan, now. Not just Parrish.

The young Deputy looked at his hands, with his green eyes, and there was fear in him. Fear of the power running through his hands, the abilities he was born with, the abilities he didn’t ask for. John wondered if Parrish felt the same about his life- the plot he was supposed to follow, the plans he’d had, the people he’d wanted to be with.

“Scott,” he looked up, met John’s eyes briefly- there was still a war, and there would always be. The war of Beacon Hills. “We need to find Scott.”

John holstered his gun.

They’d deal with this later.

 

 

As it turned out, ‘dealing with this later’ turned out to be much later.

Jordan had been the one taking the bodies. Seeing him like that, possessed, in a trance-like state, walking like a robot, his voice flat and empty- ‘I think I saw the suspect. You should go to your son, Sheriff’- that had been horrifying. Seeing Jordan lock himself in a cell had been worse. John didn’t want Jordan in there, didn’t want to see the hate and self-loathing in those perfect green eyes.

But he didn’t trust the yellow- eyed monster that possessed him either.

‘Later’ was weeks later, after Lydia had been freed from Eichen House, after Theo had been gotten rid of in the most humane and least painful way possible. Sheriff John Stilinski had come home, feeling sore and tired, aching right down to his bones, and let himself into an empty house. Stiles was sleeping at Malia’s house, and the darkness of his kitchen was haunting.

Loneliness, the kind he’d only known when it came hand-in-hand with death, made him reach for a bottle of brandy.

A hand, long and slender, landed on his wrist, and he jumped. He reached to his waist, grasping at a gun he didn’t have strapped to his belt.

“Sheriff.” Jordan was staring at him, with his green eyes. There was a look in his face- a look John knew better than anyone else, because he saw it in the mirror every morning, because he felt it below his skin even when he smiled and faked normalcy. It was desperation, lust, a denied thing. There was wanting in Jordan’s young face, and John stared at him, not believing what he was seeing, stunned enough that he didn’t wonder how Jordan had gotten inside the house at all.

Impossible. This couldn’t be real.

Jordan moved closer, wearing a tight t-shirt that left very little to the imagination. John wanted to pull it off, touch the skin beneath- a pull of nausea made him swallow hard.

“I’m old enough to be your father. You’re- You’re barely older than my son.” He said it, but didn’t mean it. Didn’t want to have to say it.

Jordan Parrish smiled, white teeth and pink lips and tanned skin and nervous confidence. “And I’m a Hellhound.” He leaned forward, and they were touching, young hands on a tired body. “Whatever that is.”

“You…”

“John.” The monster was somewhere else. Somewhere very far away, and there was nothing but desire in the face that hovered, a few inches from John’s. He wanted to be taken care of. He wanted to be touched. He wanted to be held, to feel safe in the arms of a man who could’ve been his father. “Please.”

One word.

That was all it took.

 

 

Jordan was perfect and flawless under his hands, young and eternal, supernaturally unadulterated. He arched, moaned, masculinity giving way to whimpers and gasps. His eyes remained green and human, and his hips were slender. Sheriff Stilinski did not undress, and he was sure Jordan understood- next to him, he felt like an old man. He wouldn’t show his body to a lover this young.

He tried not to think of flames, of burning, of the piles of bodies that waited somewhere in the forest to be cremated by Beacon Hill’s guardian of fire- and, when Jordan clenched around him, gripping the pillow by his head, crying out, it was easy not to. He’d never done this before- not with another man. Jordan knew what to do, however, and they both knew that the pain of being underprepared faded after a few minutes, as he healed. They didn’t talk, or think, about that.

John lost himself in this beautiful young man and, for a few precious moments, he forgot Beacon Hills. He forgot about werewolves and Dread Doctors and banshees and kanimas and nogistunes- he even forgot about dementia, and what it had done to his wife. All he knew was the blush spreading down Jordan’s cheeks, his neck, his collarbone, his chest. All he knew was the creaks of the bed, the sounds they made, the gasps and the grunts.

It was simple in a way things hadn’t been for a long time.

Afterwards, it was nearly awkward. But Jordan lay against him, snuggling into his side, long fingers fanning across his chest, curling against the fabric of the Sheriff’s uniform. It felt ridiculous, to be lying in bed with this beautiful man, and to be still dressed.

They didn’t talk about that either.

“I wish I’d never come to this damn town,” Jordan whispered, suddenly so loud in the dark room, and John hugged him close, closing his eyes as a hitched breath hit the air.

“Then we’d never have met.”

A cliché if ever he’d heard one. But he couldn’t bring himself to care when a laugh broke apart Jordan’s quiet sobbing.

“True.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading~


End file.
